(Pfade, Gassen, Mauern, Gedanken, Labyrinthe, in denen man sich zu orientieren versucht, dann und wann den Faden verliert, die Astgabel, den Baumstumpf, die verwitternde Tür wiedererkennt, abbiegt, auf unerwartetem Platz steht, Schilder liest, Fremde grüßt. Uneins mit sich selbst, überreizt, schlaflos müde.)
5pm and still out in the green. Season of harvest, season of neighbours cherries to fall from the trees amass and turn to alcohol between the bushes. A mouse and a crowd of ants on a quest for food. Bees and wasps in the sunflowers. A horizon of blue and grey.
(And then there's a temporary silence and a drifting away and a doorbell at the wrong moment and all to remain is a pulse racing and an indefinite in-between, both temporal and spatial.)
Always near 5pm. Afternoon has a tendency to force strong contrasts, light too bright, shadows too dark, and everything running into a mind mostly drained of inspiration and focus. (Disconnecting for a moment. Catching a breath. And maybe a bit of dim light.)
3pm and on. Oh well, afternoons. The model's stuttering at todays last questions, emphasizing its own limits in well-crafted words. Maybe the topic is too complex for machines to tackle, or there are general signs of exhaustion shining through the fabric of obscurely trained knowledge. Coffee won't help much it seems, so by now resorting to known constants and explanations feels like the way to go. Picking up headphones once again while day's still keeping its light on the facades. Moving on, moving on fast.